


Luv You, Babe

by numberthescars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numberthescars/pseuds/numberthescars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been four days since the case wrapped, and Sherlock was still calling him "darling." And "love," and "pet," and occasionally "babe." The worst part was, John wasn't sure he didn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luv You, Babe

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in response to [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=96332838#t96332838) on the meme.

  


"Darling, get me my mobile," Sherlock drawled from his prone position on the sofa.

John stiffened, then sighed and rolled his eyes for the benefit of the defrosting eyeballs on the sideboard. It wasn't the bossing around that was getting to him--after months of living with Sherlock Holmes, he was used to that. But it had been four days since the case wrapped, and Sherlock was still calling him "darling." And "love," and "pet," and occasionally (John shuddered at the memory) "babe." The worst part was, John wasn't sure he didn't like it.

"Get it yourself. It's about two feet from your left hand," he yelled to Sherlock from the kitchen.

"Busy."

John sighed again, mainly for show, then trudged into the sitting room and retrieved the offending bit of hardware. Sherlock took it without looking at him. But as John was turning away, he heard Sherlock mutter, "Thank you, love."

The case had been nothing special. They were investigating a murder at a posh hotel, and Sherlock had insisted on taking a room for the night. All well and good in John's books, especially since someone else was picking up the tab. It was when Sherlock insisted they pose as a recently married couple that he got concerned.

"Can't we just get separate rooms?" he had pleaded.

Sherlock groaned as though mortally offended by John's idiocy. "For the third time John! The room beside the one where the murder was committed is the honeymoon suite, and we _must_ have that room."

"Well--wouldn't it make more sense to go with a girl then?" John argued weakly. He honestly couldn't envision a woman with the stamina to stand in as Sherlock's imaginary wife. That Irene woman, maybe.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "This inn is known for its hospitality to gay couples. It came highly recommended on OutTraveler.com." John's mind went into overdrive imagining Sherlock trolling gay travel forums in the middle of the night. "Besides," Sherlock continued, a smirk playing on his lips, "I don't think you'd be very convincing in drag."

So newlyweds Seamus and James it had been. That Sherlock could mimic a perfect Irish accent was no surprise, but John was unprepared for "Seamus' " public displays of affection. At reception, Sherlock had wrapped an arm around John's waist and called him "luv," then asked for a "nice quiet room, if you catch my meanin'." John's face could have stopped traffic.

At dinner in the restaurant, Sherlock held his hand and played footsie under the table, ordered John's food for him and called him "sweetie." On the way back upstairs, they stopped by the concierge desk. Sherlock's arm was around John's waist again, and John resigned himself to whatever humiliation was to come next. It couldn't be any worse than what he'd already suffered, could it?

"D'you have one o' those signs?" Sherlock was asking the woman at the desk. "Do Not Disturb, you know." He winked. The woman smiled knowingly and passed John a small wooden door hanger. He accepted it, willing himself to stop blushing. "Come on, babe," Sherlock said, steering John away from the concierge. As they walked towards the elevator, his hand slid slightly lower and he pinched John's bottom. John reconsidered his childhood theory that it was possible to die from embarrassment.

John waited until they had closed and locked the door of the suite before rounding on Sherlock. "What the BLOODY HELL was that, Sherlock!" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's red face, before shrugging coolly out of his suit jacket and settling it on a hanger. "You should learn to be more specific in your inquiries, John, or you'll never get any answers."

John gritted his teeth. "Fine. What the bloody hell were you doing pinching my bum? In public!"

"I was merely ensuring that we would remain undisturbed for an extra several hours in the morning, giving us plenty of time to complete our examination of the empty room next door," Sherlock replied calmly. "I understand that such playful fondling is considered evidence of a robust sexual relationship, reinforcing our cover and underlining the need for privacy. Doing it in private would not have had the desired effect." Noticing John's expression, frozen somewhere between hilarity, humiliation and barely-contained rage, Sherlock sighed. "Your acting was...good," he conceded. "I relied on your predictably excessive blushing to add a layer of veracity to the situation." He sent a surreptitious glance at John.

John had stared at Sherlock, who was still nervously awaiting his reaction, then dissolved into helpless giggles. After a moment, Sherlock had joined in.

"John!"

John jumped, dropping the sappy smile that had unconsciously spread across his face while reminiscing. That really needed to stop. "What now, Sherlock? I have to finish unpacking the groceries before the milk goes off."

"As you haven't moved for the past 17 minutes, the milk cannot be your primary concern," Sherlock responded, striding past the kitchen fully dressed. At John's questioning look, he doubled back grinning. "Case. Female found in Bayswater. Potential cannibalism."

John abandoned the groceries, hurrying after Sherlock. "What, someone chewed on the body?"

"No. Basted. For roasting, I assume."

John wrinkled his nose. "Disgusting. Just let me get my coat."

"Already got it." Sherlock tossed John's jacket at him. "Wouldn't want you getting a chill, pet."

John looked upwards, begging whatever deity was bothering to listen for patience. "Just don't call me that in front of Lestrade and the rest, I'll never live it down."

"Never," Sherlock agreed, an amused glint in his eye. "Doing it in public wouldn't have the desired effect." He held the front door open, gesturing for John to go through.

"After you, babe."


End file.
